


A name

by Fieryeule



Series: SEP Era [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Soldier Enhancement Program Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 15:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12962763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fieryeule/pseuds/Fieryeule
Summary: He doesn't really know what he's doing here, but he's going to try.Or, Jack meets Gabriel.





	A name

Really, he didn’t know what he’d expected. He found himself in front of a dull, government building with snowflakes falling all around him. The building was as inconspicuous as could be conceived, and the dark frosted windows yielded no clue as to what was hidden inside. He shivered, glancing towards the iron doors into the building.

What had he gotten himself into?

 

His mother had never discouraged him from joining the military. Like most things, she just wanted him to be happy. Of course, she had tried to cultivate a few different careers in him. She’d mention how so-and-so was a doctor now, and wow, she really seemed to enjoy it. Dinner conversations between the two of them would casually turn to what college he was thinking of going to. His attempts to change the subject, however transparent, were always politely accepted. He could change Harvard into the weather, and his mother wouldn’t blink.

His father was different.

His father worked hard all day in the fields of their farm. He came from callouses on his hands and curses on his lips. The dinner discussion between him and his father was always too aggressive for his liking.

“When are you going to start helping me in the fields, John?” His father referred to him always by John. It have been his father’s name and his father’s before that. He tried to correct his father, sometimes, but it never worked. The name never left.

Oh, I don’t know, he replied, mumbling under his breath.

“Isn’t the weather nice today, John?” His mother came always to the rescue, supplying subject changes that made sense. His own attempts at distracting his father ended only in lectures.

“Nice?” his father chuckled, a raspy laugh that made the hair on his neck stand on end. “That cold bit me right to the bone! Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course.”

He and his mother made appreciative noises as they ate their chicken casserole. He had learned that the best noises at the dinner table were the sounds of silverware against the china plates.

“How was school today, John?” the attention was brought back to him. He continued to look at his plate and began to say something about track practice. “Look me in the eyes when you talk, son!”

He shivered, and stared his father in the eyes. Like both his parents, he had the trademark blue eyes that ran in the family. His father’s were icy, frozen with a severity his mother’s equally blue eyes lacked. He had always avoided looking in the mirror, scared of which version he would see. Faced with those cold, unsympathetic eyes, he spat out some story about a math exam.

He felt his heart skip a bat as his father looked at him for one second longer. His pulse pounded as John opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes, and inhaled.

“I met my old friend today while shopping. Do you remember Gretta, John? I almost invited her to the wedding, but there simply wasn’t enough space! She was so kind, asking about the family, but just as boring as I remember.” His mom glanced towards his eyes briefly, and he hoped she could she the relief written on his face. His father looked taken aback for a moment, and shot him a glare that was paralyzing even seen through just peripheral vision. Yet his father did remain silent.

This happened in many topics on many nights throughout middle school and early to middle high school. His father would say something, tensions would rise, and his mother would deflate tensions at their highest peak with an innocuous statement about friends, the weather, and neighborhood gossip. The one topic his father never touched was his interest in the military- perhaps because he didn’t know it existed. His father counted on him to continue to run the family farm after high school. His father may have been belligerent, but he wasn’t one to argue over something that had only one conceivable option. And he himself certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. The discussion of higher education remained between him and his mother alone.

After all, his father may have been iron, but his mother was a skilled blacksmith. And he was just another lump of metal on the anvil.

 

“Name?” The secretary in the office looked at him. She had blonde hair and pink-rimmed glasses. Her eyes had dark circles, and her blouse was wrinkled and had a stain near the hem.

“Uh, Morrison?” He glanced around the office, trying to find something to focus on. “I’m here for the, uh, program? I am in the right place?” He settled for the moment on the empty coffee mug lying nearby. It said, “#1 Mom!” in what had once been bright red letters. It was faded now, and the “#” looked like a strangely crossed “t”.

“Uh, yes, you are.” As he watched the secretary picked up the mug to take a sip. Upon finding it empty, she frowned. She sighed, and gestured to a lone, white chair. “Just… sit there for now. Someone will be here soon to show you your room.” She sighed again, stood up, and walked out of the room.

“Uh, okay?” He said to the empty room. The metal chair squeaked as he sat down in it. He winced.

The room was empty, silent save the hum of the heating unit in the corner. Now that he was alone, he felt himself warming up. The evening outside was growing rapidly darker, and he felt bad for the secretary. Despite the early winter night, it had to be growing late. It was obvious she was overworked, as well.

Further glances around the room gave more evidence towards that. The calendar on the wall was tilted ever so slightly, and a beautiful picture of the Rocky Mountains was set to the wrong month. There were stacks of paper scattered across the room, and coffee rings lined more than a few.

He startled momentarily as a man entered the room.

“Hello! I’m Michael Sanders, and I’m in charge of board here. You won’t actually see me very much, but I help keep this place clean and ready. Any complaints about rooming should be brought to me, by the way. I’ll be giving you a tour and showing you your room, and then you can settle down for the night.” Michael Sanders was an older man, who looked to be in his forties at the earliest. He had dark skin and a kind face, which was currently plastered into a smile. He looked to be at least slightly more alert than the secretary. Sanders looked at him in confusion as he stood up. “Where’s the rest of your luggage?”

“I, uh, don’t have any more.” He looked sheepishly at Sanders. It had seemed to him that one duffel bag was a perfectly fair amount. The letter had said they would be receiving clothing here.

“Wow. Light packer, huh?”

“You could say that.”

 

Senior year was when it had fallen apart on so many levels.

He had always known, to a certain extent, his interest in guys rather than girls. In previous years he’d ignored it, and blown it off as inconsequential. Nobody knew, not even his mother, but he figured he could tell them if he wanted to. It wasn’t like anyone talked about it, and his family didn’t really go to church, either.

His opinions on that changed in the first month of his senior year, when a girl in the junior class came out as lesbian. She’d told her homeroom class it, so naturally everyone knew by the end of the day. He had gone to a small high school in a small town, where everyone knew everything. Nevertheless, the girl didn’t seem to care that everyone knew.

He hadn’t known her before this incident, not any more than he knew everyone in his town. He had a small group of close friends, and she wasn’t in it. Still, he kept an eye on her. She was an experiment on leaving the closet, and while he was more in a nuclear bunker than a closet, the data was helpful nonetheless.

He’d expected some roughness towards her, but not to the extreme that actually happened. People defaced her locker, and a teacher failed her essay because it discussed LGBT relations in a positive light. His family held a party for his father’s birthday, and when his friend called her the d-word, his father agreed. Eventually, the girl’s life was so messed up that she transferred to another school.

All of this caused him to add more padlocks to the bunker, and to cement the fact that he’d never, ever, come out.

Then the bomb dropped.

He had found his mother in the morning, on a crisp April day. His father had already gone out in the fields. He was already nervous, because usually his mother was awake and had already eaten by the time he even stumbled to the breakfast table. It was almost time for him to leave for the bus, but she hadn’t come down yet.

She was lying in her bed, and looked asleep. He yelled her name, and then made to shake her awake. His hands touched her shoulders, and they were icy cold. He looked at her again, checked for the pulse that wasn’t there, but to no avail.

With shaking hands, he dialled 911. “What is your emergency?” the nice woman on the phone asked.

It’s my mother, he said. I went to wake her up but she’s dead.

“Oh my goodness! You sure, honey? What’s your address?”

I’m sure, he said. He gave her the address of the farm house.

“How long has she been this way, dear?”

I don’t know, he whispered. She’s really cold. My father left in the early morning for work, but I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

“Oh my. That’s quite alright. We’re going to send over some people. I’m going to go ahead and disconnect so you can call your father.” The phone beeped as the politefully sad lady hung up.

He stares at the phone in abject terror. HIs mother was his father’s life. However rocky John’s relationship was with his son, he and his wife were in love.

He dialled the numbers and brought the phone up to his face as it rung.

“John? This better be important. I’m doing something important, you know. I’m in the middle of work-” he cut off the booming growl of his father.

She’s dead, he repeated. Mom is. I went upstairs to wake her up and I saw her and and she wasn’t asleep and I touched her and she was cold and I called 911 and they’re coming and then I called you.

“John, I expected better from you. This isn’t something to prank about! Put your mother on the phone, you’re going to be late to school.”

No, no! he cried. This isn’t a prank! I’m serious! His voice rose with panic. You’ve got to come home! Please! Please!

“Son, I’m coming home. This better be a prank.” His father remained on the line for a moment longer, waiting for him to admit the prank. His father’s voice was death incarnate. His father had always sounded like he smoked a pack a day, despite never having touched a cigarette. When he was younger, his voice had changed to a mirror replica. He hated hearing his own words come out in his father’s voice.

Ok, he sobbed, though his father had already left the call. He sat on the floor next to his parents’ bed. His arms were wrapped around his legs, and his face was buried in his knees. He remained there until the emergency responses team shows up with his father on their tail. He opened the door to the house for them, and let them come inside. They examined the body.

He watched in horror as his father cried. He had never seen that before, never known it was possible. With every tear, he felt his world crashing and burning around him.

The funeral was simple, though crowded. They had many many friends, but few relatives. His mother had been an only child whose parents had already died. His father had a pair of brothers in Virginia, but they were estranged and his father liked to pretend they didn’t exist.

It was the beginning of the end of his relationship with his father.

He hadn’t been hit too much before; only a couple of whacks when his father was sober. His father was considerably more violent when drunk, but he hadn’t been fond of liquor before. That behavior changed after his mother’s death. John still worked, but when he came home, he drank himself senseless and hit his son until he was senseless too. He got a lot of practice with his sewing kit, sewing his skin as his father snored.

He knew that staying home wasn’t an option, however much his father wanted that. He didn’t want to go to college, either; he needed to do something with himself that wasn’t learning.

“Are you looking forward to helping around the farm, John? Because I know I am!” His father laughed, swirling around the whiskey in his glass. He seemed to be in a good mood. When his mother had taught him how to cook, he had been dismissive of his son’s knowledge. He did seem to enjoy the steak on his plate right now, though. Perhaps it was his father’s good mood. Maybe it was the pain in his side from the four stitches he’d sown the previous night. But somehow, he decided that this was the time to go against his father.

“Actually, I was thinking about joining the military.” he said, and he knew instantly he’d messed up something major. His father stood up, drained his glass, and walked over to his son’s chair. 

“What did you just say, son?”

I was, uh, thinking about joining the military? I can still stay here if you want me to, though! He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. His father gestured for him to rise, so he did.

“Keep in mind, John, that I’m doing this for your own good. I know you, and you wouldn’t last one second in the army.” His father drew out an arm to punch him.

But he, the fool, dodged the punch and slugged his father in the face. Something good, too. His father crashed to floor.

He panicked.

 

Sanders lead him down a hallway. The hallway was lit with fluorescent lights, and they hurt his eyes. Despite the painful lighting, Sanders and his crew had done a good job. The hallway was neat and orderly, without as much as a cobweb in a single corner. They walked for several minutes before stopping before a pair of wooden doors. Sanders gestured for him to go in first.

The room was practically an exact copy of the cafeteria in his old high school. The place was large, but not huge. There was space for around 100 people, he guessed.

“This is the cafeteria. Breakfast is served beginning at 0530 hours, and hot breakfast is served at 0545 hours. I recommend getting here quickly, because the good stuff is definitely gone by 0600. The cafeteria closes at 0630. You’ll get a further timetable tomorrow at breakfast.” Sanders rattled through the obvious mental list. “You’ve shown up rather early, to be honest- only a few other recruits are here. If I remember correctly, your roommate is one of them.”

“Roommate?” He asked. “There aren’t, like, shared barracks?”

“Nope.” Sanders smiled. “This is a start-of-the-art facility here. Each room even has its own bathroom. It’d be a shame if we had to cram all of you into the same room, huh?”

“Yeah.” The cafeteria is nice, he supposed. It had a nice corner area where he could sit by himself.

“I was planning to give you the full tour, but it seems we’re running out of time. We have a busload of recruits coming in around 5 minutes, so you have two options. You can wait for them and all take the tour together, or you can skip the tour and head to your room. I’m sure your roommate would be glad to share some information with you.” Sanders smiled again at him. He felt relieved at the options given, however unsettling Sanders’ smiles were.

“Just head to my room please. I’m fairly whipped. How late is it?”

“Just after 2200 hours.” Ah. That explains the exhaustion of both him and the secretary.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

 

After knocking out his father, he knew he had crossed a line. When John woke up, he was going to beat him so hard he might not ever be the same. So, the decision to leave came easily. He packed up a backpack, walked out to his bike, and biked to the nearest army recruitment center. He didn’t leave a note.

The center was cold, but the doctors were brisk and didn’t care too much about the stitches in his side. Of course, they asked who made them, but they seemed impressed when he admitted it was him. He blew it off as an accident caused by falling out of a tree. They accepted it, which was all he cared about.

He did a tour in a crisis in the deserts of the Sahara. This was still when it was people against people, so his ability to shoot and not cry himself to sleep was greatly appreciated. He rose in the ranks, proving himself in skirmish after skirmish. After one battle, it appeared that he was the last one standing. He didn’t care too much, at the time. He hadn’t grown close to anyone, preferring to sleep alone and talk to no-one. He respected their sacrifice, of course, but his main emotion after the battle was merely exhaustion.

When his new CO dropped a stack of files on his desk about a so-called Soldier Enhancement Program, he accepted within 5 minutes of reading it. After that fight, he was willing to do anything to get back to the United States. Even if it was consenting to have himself pumped full of a chemical cocktail and turned into Captain America.

His mother was always at the back of his mind. He barely had dreams about her anymore, but that didn’t change the facts. The fact that every dead woman he saw was he in that bed. The fact that when he had once yelled at a recruit, he had himself with his own voice. And the fact that his body was littered with scars that didn’t come from a bullet, but from his father.

He hoped the SEP would be a fresh start, or at the very least, not the war.

 

The door to his room was brown wood, and the doorknob had no lock. The room number was labeled “23” in black paint. Taped to the door was a sheet of paper, which said “Room 23: #24 and #76”.

Sanders smiled at him again. “Well, here’s your room. I’ll go ahead and knock for you.” The man seemed to read into his apprehension.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” A voice from within the room said, and footsteps made their way to the door. It swung open to reveal the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen.

The man was wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants, and a black beanie rested on his head. He had darker skin, but not as dark as Sanders’. The beautiful man had a finely manicured goatee and the two roommates looked to be the same age.

He felt terror and euphoria at the same time. The man was handsome, to say the least, wouldn’t that distract from his lone-wolf dynamics? The other part of his brain screamed in happiness that he’d gotten the luck to room with this guy.

“Hey,” said the man. “The name’s Reyes, Gabriel Reyes.” He held out his hand.

“Hello. I’m Morrison, Jack Morrison.” Jack smiled, and shook it.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, so feedback is appreciated.


End file.
